


Seven Stars

by ariel2me



Series: House Seaworth [11]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:09:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariel2me/pseuds/ariel2me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven sons, seven gods.</p><p>Chapter 4: Matthos helps Davos write a letter to Marya, tries to encourage his father to learn to read and write, and reminisces about the last time all nine members of the Seaworth family were together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dale

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by “The Song of the Seven” Sam sang to Gilly in A Storm of Swords. (You can find the song at the end of Chapter 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your son Dale will go south in Wraith, past Cape Wrath and the Broken Arm, all along the coast of Dorne as far as the Arbor. Each of you will carry a chest of letters, and you will deliver one to every port and holdfast and fishing village. Nail them to the doors of septs and inns for every man to read who can.” (A Clash of Kings).
> 
> “Dale would never give his wife the child they had prayed for.” (A Storm of Swords)
> 
> Basically Dale stopped by at Cape Wrath after delivering Stannis’ letters, to visit his mother, his wife and his two little brothers. Hey it’s fanfic ; )

**Chapter 1/7: Dale Seaworth**

_The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife,_

_Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children_

__________________________

There she was, Mother, his mother, not the Mother Above, waiting for him on the shore of Cape Wrath with Steff and Stanny standing by her side, the two boys waving excitedly at the ship. Dale waved back, his eyes searching for another person he thought would be there. She was nowhere in sight. His wife.

There was more grey in Mother’s hair, and her ample flesh seemed to have shrunk since the last time Dale saw her. She was still a plump woman, but when they embraced, Dale could feel rattling bones in places where he had never felt them before.

“Have you been ill, Mother?” Dale asked with alarm. Father had not said anything, but Dale knew it was not unheard of for his mother to conceal what she considered ‘ _troublesome news’_ from her husband, when he was away from home.

Marya shook her head, trying to reassure her eldest son. “It’s only the boys running me ragged,” she said, smiling, her left hand brushing Steff’s hair and the right one squeezing Stanny’s shoulder.

“We haven’t been naughty,” Steff piped up, with all the solemnity a six-year-old could muster.

“We promised Father we would be good,” Stanny said gravely. “Mother is worried about Father. And you and Allard –“

“- and Matthos and Maric and Devan too,” Steff interrupted. “Has Devan grown tall? I’ve grown five finger lengths since you last saw me. Stanny’s grown only three,” he announced proudly, showing the numbers with his fingers.

“Devan has grown, but not as much as you have, Steff,” Dale reassured his youngest brother. “He has grown a beard too. Well, Devan calls it a beard and he’s very proud of it, but it’s still more a fuzz really, at this stage.”

“I’m sure it will grow into a proper beard soon,” Stanny said loyally.

 _A fuzz_ _that would have shamed a proper peach_ , Dale had thought, but never mentioned to Devan, for fear of inadvertently hurting his feelings. The boy was very solemn and earnest, thoughtful and serious far beyond his years.

“Devan reminds me so much of you, at that age,” his father had told Dale, not long age.

Dale nodded. “I can see the physical resemblance.” Dale and Devan had the same fly-away brown hair, the same average looks. Neither of them had Allard’s more striking features, or Maric’s playful smile and eyes that always seemed to be almost winking, even when he was being entirely serious.

“Yes, that, but I was not only talking of physical appearance,” Davos replied. He had not explained further, and Dale did not want to pry, so they had left it at that.

The last time Dale saw Steff and Stanny had been almost a year ago, when he sent his wife to Cape Wrath just before Stannis Baratheon closed the port at Dragonstone. Lord Stannis was preparing for war, some men whispered. Lord Stannis was preparing for Dragonstone to be attacked, others muttered darkly. Dale had not known which was the truth, but he knew that Dragonstone was no longer a safe place for his wife.

Dina had not wanted to leave, had wished to stay by her husband’s side. “Lord Stannis has not sent his own wife and daughter away. The danger, whatever it is, must not be imminent,” she pointed out to her husband.

“Lady Selyse and Lady Shireen are staying in a castle guarded day and night by armed men. It is not the same for us,” Dale replied. In the end, Dina gave in when Dale spoke of his concern about his mother and his brothers at Cape Wrath, and his wish that Dina could be of some comfort and help to them during these uncertain times.

Dale was relieved that Dina was no longer at Dragonstone. The sight of the Seven burning would have distressed his devout wife, who lit candles and prayed to each of the seven gods every morning, even the Stranger. It had distressed Dale and his brothers too, and their father as well, even though Allard had been the only one who had spoken loudly of it. “It is an ill thing to burn the Seven,” Allard had said, too loudly and too brashly.

“When did you grow so devout? What does a smuggler’s son know of the doings of the gods?” Davos Seaworth had chided his second son.

Allard had muttered something about being a knight’s son. Dale recalled the time when he, Allard, Matthos and Maric, smuggler’s sons all, had prayed fervently to the Mother in her mercy to keep their smuggler father safe from harm, and to the Crone to light her shining lamp and guide Davos Seaworth home to his wife and his sons.

Unlike Allard, however, Dale had learned from an early age to guard his tongue better, and to keep most of his rebellious thoughts to himself.

“This is a dangerous time,” Father had said to Dale later, when the two of them were alone. “We must all be careful. Very careful. Not just with our deeds, but our words as well.”

There was no need for his father to say more. Their thoughts, Dale’s and Davos’, were both turned towards Guncer Sunglass and Septon Barre, currently languishing in Stannis Baratheon’s dungeon. And towards Maester Cressen’s sadder fate, his punishment for daring to cross the red woman and her red god. Davos Seaworth had few friends among the highborn lords and knights of Dragonstone who thought him an upjumped nobody who did not deserve his place of honor in Lord Stannis’ confidence. Many of those men would love nothing more than to cause trouble for Davos, or failing that, for one of his sons.

“I will speak to Allard, and remind him to be more judicious with his words,” Dale promised his father. “But Father … Lord Stannis … he –“

“King Stannis, Dale. Mind that you remember it always.” His father’s loyalty to Stannis Baratheon was steadfast, unshaken even by the display they had seen this very morning. But his father’s next words surprised Dale. “It is not the gods they were burning this morning, only wood carvings. Mother, Father, and the others, we keep them in our hearts still, they are watching over us still, and we can pray to them still, in our own time,” Davos whispered to his son. “That is not something to be spoken loudly in front of others, of course,” he warned Dale.

Dale nodded his understanding. His father was a man who had learned to make his way in the world the hard way from an early age, a man who knew how to survive while still never neglecting his duties and his responsibilities. It was the reason, Dale suspected, Davos Seaworth had chosen more than one badge for the Seaworth sigil - the black ship _and_ the onion - to remind himself not only of where he was heading, but where he had come from, and the hard lessons he had learned about life along the way.

Dale wondered if he and his brothers had been a source of disappointment in some ways to his father, with their insistence, Allard especially, to forget about the days when they did not bear the Seaworth name, when they were a smuggler’s sons and not a knight’s sons.

No, not a source of disappointment, Dale thought. That was not Father’s way with his children. But perhaps a source of worry and sadness, perhaps even despair, which was even worse in Dale’s mind.

_Forgive us, Father._

And Mother too, Mother who had spent most of her life worrying about her sons.

His mother’s words rang in Dale’s ears. “ _If you are not willing to face the heartache, then you should not be having children at all.”_ Marya Seaworth, as kind and gentle as she was, was not the type of woman to mince her words, especially with her four grown sons.

Dina was waiting for Dale in the sept. She was kneeling in front of the Mother’s altar, praying silently. She turned when she heard his footsteps entering the sept. For a while, the two of them were motionless, standing still, looking at each other like two shy people who were courting for the very first time. Dale’s feet made the first move, Dina’s followed soon after, and suddenly they were in each other’s embraces. She kissed him, this husband she had not seen for almost a year. Dale responded with enthusiasm, but then he remembered where they were.

“Not here. I can feel them watching,” he whispered.

“The gods, you mean?”

Dale nodded.

“But the gods are always watching. Here and everywhere.”

“Yes, but … I don’t want them to watch … you know,” Dale blushed.

“Dale Seaworth! If you think I mean to do anything more than kiss my husband in the sept …“

“No, no,” Dale said hastily, but his protestation was cut short by the sound of his wife’s laughter. He laughed too, remembering the girl he had known in Flea Bottom who had delighted in teasing him, delighted in making him blush. He had married the woman that girl had grown into, two years and two moons ago. They had prayed and prayed to the Mother for a child, a son or a daughter, it mattered not a whit to Dale and Dina; they would have loved and treasured the child regardless, the gift of life given to them. They were still waiting for that child. The long separation certainly had not helped matters.

“You must speak to your mother first,” Dina said decisively. “She has been sick with worry. We have been hearing so many rumors since the king’s death.”

“Lord Stannis is the king now,” Dale said.

“King Robert’s brother inheriting the throne over his own son Prince Joffrey?”

“They are not his children. Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella, they were not sired by the late King Robert.”

“Well, then, who is the father?” Dina asked, then changed her mind. “Let’s find Mother and you can explain everything to us both.”

When he had done so, had explained as best as he could the basis for Stannis Baratheon’s claim to the throne, his mother and his wife said nothing for a long time. The two women exchanged glances, glances that Dale could not interpret.

“Can Lord Stannis show any proof for this incest?” His mother finally asked, her eyes looking not at Dale, but at the piece of embroidery her fingers were busy working on.

“Do you doubt him, Mother?” Dale asked, and then instantly regretted doing so.

His mother, however, did not look offended. “It doesn’t matter what I think. I’m not the one he has to convince,” Marya said, her gaze finally lingering on her son. “Do they believe him, in the places you delivered Lord Stannis’ letters?”

“It’s hard to say. The smallfolks seemed to think it a nuisance, yet another lord declaring that the throne is his. And the men are worried about being forced to leave home and hearth to fight in a long, drawn-out war.”

“And the women are worried about losing their husbands, sons, fathers and brothers, no doubt,” Marya said.

“Yet _another_ lord? Who else has claimed the throne besides Stannis Baratheon and Joffrey Baratheon?” Dina asked. “No, I suppose he would not be Joffrey _Baratheon,_ truly.”

“Renly Baratheon,” Dale replied.

“Now _that_ is nonsense,”Marya said, setting down the embroidery on her lap. “I do not know much about the business of laws and inheritance, and even less about kings and thrones, but I do know this – an older brother inherits before the younger, and that is how it has always been, for highborns and lowborns alike.”

“Lord Renly has already commanded the support of the Stormlands and the Reach,” Dale said.

“He has a lot more men than Lord Stannis, then? And yet Lord Stannis still means to press his claim?” Dina asked, horrified. “Wouldn’t it be … suicidal? How many of Lord Stannis’ men will die in his attempt to take the throne?”

Dale had no reply to that, no reassurances he could give his wife, or his mother. “ _The gods will protect us_ ,” he wished he could say, but he doubted even that now, after they had burned the Seven and turned their backs on the faith of their forefathers. “ _R’hllor will protect us_ ,” sounded even more alien to his tongue, and even less believable to his own ears.

“We owe King Stannis our loyalty, after everything he has given us,” Dale finally said, the only thing he still believed to any considerable degree.

Dina excused herself, to check on the boys, she claimed, but Dale knew she was trying to hide her tears. Dale made a move to follow her, but his mother cleared her throat and shook her head.

“Give her a few moments to herself,” Marya said. “She has so little time to spend with her husband before you have to leave again. The last thing she would have wanted is for you to see her crying and in despair.” Mother spoke as if she knew that very well from her own experience, Dale thought.

Dale obeyed his mother and stayed seated. Mother and son sat together in companionable silence for a while, before Dale hesitantly opened his mouth. “Mother?”

“Yes?”

_If I do not make it home alive, will you watch over Dina as if she were your own daughter?_

But at the moment just before he spoke the words, Dale knew there was no need for him to ask that of his mother, that she would have done so without him ever having to ask.

“Will you sing _The Song of the Seven_ for me, like you used to when we were boys?” He asked her instead.

His mother smiled. “Aren’t you too old for that? Stanny said he is now too old to need a song before bedtime. He wants stories about glorious adventures instead. I still sing it for Steff once in a while.”

“I’m never too old for your song,” Dale replied, returning her smile.

She started singing, her voice barely above a whisper at first.

_The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong. He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children._

When his mother paused to take a breath, Dale sang the next verse.

_The Mother gives the gift of life, and watches over every wife. Her gentle smile ends all strife, and she loves her little children._

They sang the rest of the song together, their voices rising and falling in unison.

_The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e’er we go,_

_With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children._

_The Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold,_

_She lifts her lamp of shining gold, to lead the little children._

_The Smith, he labors day and night, to put the world of men to right,_

_With hammer, plow, and fire bright, he builds for little children._

_The Maiden dances through the sky, she lives in every lover’s sigh,_

_Her smiles teach the birds to fly, and give dreams to little children._

_The Seven Gods who made us all, are listening if we should call,_

_So close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children,_

_Just close your eyes, you shall not fall, they see you, little children._


	2. Allard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> His sons were good men, but young, and Allard especially was rash. Had I stayed a smuggler, Allard would have ended on the Wall. Stannis spared him from that end, something else I owe him... (A Clash of Kings)
> 
> “I will speak to the king about it,” Davos promised. Better it come from him than from Allard. His sons were good fighters and better sailors, but they did not know how to talk to lords. They were lowborn, even as I was, but they do not like to recall that. (A Clash of Kings)
> 
> Allard, with his girl in Oldtown and his girl in King’s Landing and his girl in Braavos, they would all be weeping soon. (A Storm of Swords)

**Chapter 2/7: Allard Seaworth**

_The Father’s face is stern and strong, he sits and judges right from wrong,_

_He weighs our lives, the short and long, and loves the little children._

__________________________

The Father was the first to fall, his stern, bearded face the first to be set aflame. The Mother was next, her kindly, gentle face not spared the ignominy of being licked by the hungry fire, with the added indignity of a longsword being plunged deeply into her breast, as if the red god and his adherents resented the Mother’s patient forbearance the most among the Seven.

Allard stared at the charred remains of the seven gods, recalling the words of his shipmates when he told them that they were to sail _Lady Marya_ to the Free Cities, to deliver Stannis Baratheon’s letters announcing his claim to the throne.

“We will never make it back alive. The gods will see to that,” _Lady Marya’s_ oarmaster muttered darkly.

“Aye, aye. The Father protects his children, but we threw his justice and the Mother’s mercy to the flame. Why should he protect us now? Why should any of the gods protect us?”

“Not _we_. It was that red woman. It was all her doing,” protested the youngest member of the crew, a boy not much older than Allard’s own brother Devan.

The oarmaster scoffed. “And do you think the red woman would dare to burn our gods if Lord Stannis had forbidden it?”

The older, more experienced men among the crew nodded vigorously. “Lord Stannis aped the red woman’s prayers and took her burning sword eagerly enough,” one scoffed.

Now that, Allard thought, was not exactly true. Stannis Baratheon had not shown any eagerness, either for the ritual of the red god or the unveiling of the supposedly magical sword; the same way he had never, to Allard’s knowledge, shown any eagerness for anything else in his life. Stannis had remained stony-faced throughout the entire ceremony, his impatience barely disguised. But that he was the one who had ordered the gods to be burned was clear – Stannis was the king, not the red woman, and his grim presence during the occasion was proof enough for Allard.

“It is an ill thing to burn the Seven,” exclaimed Allard’s second-in-command, a man Allard trusted with his life like he would his own brothers.

Allard had said the same thing to his own father and brothers. But this was a different matter; he was the leader of these men, and such talk was not to be encouraged among his crew members.

But worse talk was yet to come, and this time, it bordered on treason.

“We are at the mercy of the gods at sea, and in battles. If we throw away the faith of our fathers and grandfathers and great-great grandfathers so easily, why should the gods be on our side? The Father will judge us harshly, and punish us for it. Lord Stannis will never win this war. Never!”

Allard put a stop to the talk immediately. “Enough! We will have no more of these treasonous words. We sail King Stannis’ ship and we do his bidding, that is the beginning and the end,” Allard said, echoing his father’s own admonition towards him earlier in the day.

Some of the men looked chastised, but others received their captain’s admonishment with disappointment shining through their eyes. But Allard saw something else too, in the men’s eyes. Fear. He saw fear. Felt it too, in the pit of his own stomach, in the deepest recesses of his own mind.

Fearful men would not make good soldiers, Allard knew. And King’s Landing and battle was surely their next destination, for it was doubtful that Lord Stannis – _nay_ – _King_ Stannis’ letters would be enough to win him the throne.

“When did you grow so devout? What does a smuggler’s son know about the doings of the gods?” Davos Seaworth had asked his second son. Allard could not fault his father for having doubts about his faith, since Allard was possibly the least devout of Davos and Marya Seaworth’s seven sons, the one least likely to lit candles for any of the gods, the one most likely to be found whoring and gambling, the one with a girl in Braavos and a girl in King’s Landing and a girl in Oldtown instead of a wife like Dale, the dutiful first-born son.

But in Allard’s eyes, his father seemed to have overlooked something very important - that the power of the gods did not lie necessarily in what they could actually do, but in what their faithful adherents believedthey could do. The Seven need not actually visit their wrathful judgment on Stannis Baratheon and his men to cause Stannis to lose the war; the only thing required was for Stannis’ men to believe that to be the case.

“Praying to charred wood? Are you such a fool to think that they would listen?” A voice coming from his back startled Allard from his reverie. It sounded … surely … but it could not be …

But it was. Allard turned around and came face to face with his lord’s stern, forbidding visage. His king, now, actually, Allard reminded himself.

“I am waiting for my father, Your Grace. I was told that he’s with Your Grace in the Chamber of the Painted Table.”

Stannis said nothing, staring at Allard intently with his bruising blue eyes.

“I am Allard Seaworth, Your Grace. Ser Davos Seaworth’s second son, and captain of –“

“Captain of _Lady Marya_. Yes, I know who you are. Do you think I would have appointed a man I do not know as the captain of one of my war galleys?” Stannis asked, sounding highly indignant. “Your father is with Maester Pylos, collecting the letters he, you, and your brother Dale will be delivering.”

“Forgive me. I thought perhaps … in the dark … you might have mistaken me for one of my brothers,” Allard replied, trying to sound suitably chastised and remorseful, and not succeeding at all.

“You must learn to guard your tongue, and learn how to speak to a lord,” his father had reminded Allard, more than once.

“I thought Lord Stannis values you for being direct, Father, and for your willingness to always tell him the truth, no matter how bitter and unpleasant it is,” had been Allard’s rejoinder.

“You are my son. You are not me,” had been his father’s response.

“You mean you can risk danger and Lord Stannis’ displeasure, but your sons must never do the same?”

Stannis spoke before Allard could recall what his father’s reply had been, at the time. “It is not so dark that I would confuse one Seaworth son with another, having trusted the lot of you with many important positions in my service,” Stannis said pointedly.

It was a reminder, Allard suspected. A reminder of how much they owed Stannis Baratheon. Not just Davos Seaworth, but his sons too. Stannis had made Dale and Allard captains of his war galleys, Maric was oarmaster on Stannis’ own ship Fury, and Matthos was his father’s second-in-command on Black Betha. And Devan Seaworth was now a royal squire, looking grand and splendid in his squire raiment, a knighthood not far in his future, undoubtedly. “Lord Stannis gave us that, and much, much more. He gave us hope, and a future I never dreamed for my sons. We owe him our loyal service in return,” Davos Seaworth had reminded his sons time and time again.

“We are grateful for everything you have given us, Your Grace. You will always have the Seaworth’s loyalty,” Allard said, even as in his head he was shouting, _To what end? We stayed loyal when he burned our gods. Will we stay loyal when he starts burning men? Women? What about children? How can we be certain he will not be capable of that, considering the new god he has chosen, and his single-mindedness about the throne?_

The doubts, the gnawing doubts clawing inside him, Allard kept to himself.

_See, Father?_ _You were wrong. I do know how to guard my tongue. I do know how to speak to a lord after all._

Or perhaps not, since Stannis Baratheon was not only frowning, but he was also loudly grinding his teeth. “It is you duty to be loyal to your rightful king, even if I have not given you and your brothers anything at all. Loyalty should not be for sale.”

It should not be for sale, true, but surely Stannis Baratheon was not naïve enough to believe that loyalty was never for sale, in the real world? The king had always struck Allard as a man completely without illusion, one who had seen the worst, or at least believed that he had, and therefore constantly believed the worst of his fellow men. But now, Allard wondered if his assessment of the king had been wrong after all.

He did not have to wonder for long, however. Stannis quickly disabused Allard of any notion he might have had about the king’s lack of illusion. “I know full well loyalty is for sale in every street corner with every gold dragon. But I was expecting better from the sons of my onion knight,” Stannis said, not allowing Allard any escape from his withering gaze.

Despite himself, Allard truly _did_ feel chastised this time. The king’s face, with his closely cropped beard and his severe blue eyes, was starting to resemble the Father’s countenance in the dark of the night. Not Allard’s father, but the Father Above, the one sitting in judgment of all his children.

Looking down at his feet, avoiding the king’s gaze, Allard said, “You should not judge my brothers from my conduct, Your Grace. My own father would tell you that I am the son who troubles him the most, the one who has caused him the most heartaches and worries.”

“If you think your father is in the habit of complaining about any of his sons to me, or to anyone else, then you do not know him at all.” Stannis paused, staring off into the distance. “I was the son causing my father and mother the most concern as well,” he said under his breath, as if speaking to himself. “It grieved them that I never learned to laugh.”

Allard waited, keeping silent, but no further unexpected confidences seemed to be forthcoming from the king. Stannis roused himself, as if waking up from a dream. Or a long nightmare. When the king finally spoke, his voice was harsh and insistent. “I did not make you and your brother captains of my war galleys because you had the good fortune to be fathered by Ser Davos. If they are not qualified for the task, I would not have appointed Ser Davos’ sons, or anyone else’s sons, to any position whatsoever, even to clear out the content of my privy.”

This was a man who had made a lowborn former smuggler his closest confidante after all, despite the objections and misgivings of the highborn lords and knights around him. A man who was willing to recognize and reward merits and qualities, regardless of birth. It was a timely reminder for Allard of who Stannis Baratheon was - a reminder that the man was not just a burner of gods and a king who had forced his people to renounce their gods and the gods of their forefathers; that he had been, and still was, much more than that. This was a man worth staying loyal to, Allard thought. Even worth dying for, perhaps.

And yet, Allard still could not banish the thought of his men and the fearful look in their eyes; his shipmates terrified at the thought of the Father Above standing in harsh judgment of _Lady Marya,_ and the rest of Stannis Baratheon’s fleet.


	3. Maric

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davos would have given much to know what he was thinking, but one such as Velaryon would never confide in him. The Lord of the Tides was of the blood of ancient Valyria, and his House had thrice provided brides for Targaryen princes; Davos Seaworth stank of fish and onions. It was the same with the other lordlings. He could trust none of them, nor would they ever include him in their private councils. They scorned his sons as well. My grandsons will joust with theirs, though, and one day their blood may wed with mine. In time my little black ship will fly as high as Velaryon’s seahorse or Celtigar’s red crabs. (A Clash of Kings)
> 
> They had sailed up the Blackwater Rush flying the fiery heart of the Lord of Light. Maric his thirdborn was oarmaster on Fury, at the center of the first line. (A Clash of Kings)
> 
> The Father protects his children, the septons taught, but Davos had led his boys into the fire. Maric would never have his knighthood. (A Storm of Swords)

**Chapter 3/7: Maric Seaworth**

_The Warrior stands before the foe, protecting us where e’er we go,_

_With sword and shield and spear and bow, he guards the little children._

__________________

“Is it any wonder? Of course Stannis would send his onion knight to deliver those letters.”

“And his two sons, let’s not forget.”

“Captains of their own ships too, those two Seaworth boys. And the third son not long in coming, I’m sure. We will have seven war galleys in Stannis’ fleet captained by that family of upjumped smuggler soon.”

“Eight, if you count the father.”

“Or more, if his wife back in Cape Wrath gives him another son.”

“The Seven preserves us from that! We’re already drowning in a sea of Seaworth as it is.”

“The Seven? Don’t you mean the Lord of Light? Stannis would not be best pleased to hear that.”

“Stannis is the one drowning us in the stink of onion and salt fi– oh hello Maric. Not gone with your father and brothers then?”

Maric kept the smile on his face, pretending he had not heard every sneering word, every derisive syllable. “My duty is here with  _Fury_. And it’s not going anywhere just yet.”

“Have they left? Where are they going again, the onion knight and his sons?”

“ _Ser_  Davos is going north to deliver King Stannis’ letters announcing his rightful claim to the Iron Throne,” Maric replied, with an emphasis on the  _Ser_. “My oldest brother Dale is doing the same in the south, and my brother Allard is entrusted with the Free Cities. They have not left. They will be leaving on the morrow.”

“And you’re stuck here waiting like the rest of us?”

Maric forced a laugh, grinning widely. “Aye, aye. That’s what you get for being the third son. But I’m sure we will be leaving for battle soon.”

“Well, the son of Stannis Baratheon’s favorite knight would most surely be given a chance to cover himself with glory. Perhaps even a knighthood for you, eh?”

 _A knighthood and a piece of land. In Dragonstone, not Cape Wrath. Close to your father’s land, perhaps. And perhaps I will wed one of your comely sisters, Velaryon. How would your lord father the proud Lord Velaryon, blood of ancient Valyria_ , _feel about that?_

But these thoughts Maric kept to himself. He had learned to keep most of his thoughts to himself. A smuggler’s son should be well-versed in stealth and secrecy.

“You should have told them to choke on their onions,” Allard said gloomily, when Maric recounted the conversation at dinner. “And we’re not a smuggler’s sons, we’re a knight’s sons. If you and Father would not remember that simple fact, why should they?”

“We are the son of Davos and Marya of Cape Wrath, once of Flea Bottom,” Dale said, gently but firmly.

Allard looked like he was about to argue, but Maric interrupted swiftly to forestall the tension he knew was coming between his older brothers. “Onions? Not for the likes of them, eating onions. It would stink their breath too much. Do you reckon they eat sweet, perfumed candy every morning, to wash out the bitter taste of spite and envy?”

Allard laughed, and even Dale had a smile on his usually serious and solemn face. The smile faded quickly, however. “Father has many enemies and not a lot of friends among Stannis’ highborn lords and knights. Take care that we do not give them any ammunition that could to injure Father and his position.”

Allard glanced sharply at Dale, his face reddening. “Is that meant as a warning for me, your wayward brother?”

“It is meant for all of us, brother,” Dale said, his hand on Allard’s back. The two brothers exchanged a meaningful glance – its meaning completely lost on Maric, however – and Allard nodded, settling down before he could truly lose his temper.

His two older brothers never ceased to amaze Maric. He could live a hundred years and still would never understand all the currents and undercurrents in their relationship. Only a year apart, yet as different as night and day, Dale and Allard shared a deep bond that the other Seaworth brothers could only guess at. They only truly confided in each other, Maric knew, when it came to the really important matters. Part of it was that annoying habit older brothers had, thinking that they must protect the younger ones from distressing knowledge, but another part of it was less explicable to Maric. Perhaps they saw the other and yearned for what was missing in themselves - what could have been, what might have been, in fact what would never be, because they were each the kind of man that they were.

Maric and Matthos were separated by more years, and his shy, quiet younger brother was always an incomprehensible mystery to Maric, and to Dale and Allard too. “What goes on in that head of his?” Allard was always asking Maric, and Maric had to admit that he was just as clueless of the answer. Alone, among the four older Seaworth brothers, the ones who had known what it was like to be the sons of a smuggler before Davos was given his knighthood, Matthos had been the one who seemed oblivious to all the sneers and the jeers directed at them, content to serve his father on  _Black Betha_ , seemingly resentful of no one, indignant about no insult.

Indignation was the fuel driving Allard and Maric, even if outwardly they reacted to the insults in very different ways – Allard was more likely to react and show his anger, and Maric was more likely to smile and pretend that he had not heard anything. Dale was more apt to be conciliatory, to remind his brothers that they were not to do anything that could bring down more sneers and mockery on their House.

“What were you doing on the beach earlier?” Maric asked Allard. “And who were you speaking to for so long?”

“I was looking at the remains of the Seven,” Allard said, not answering the second question.

They had burned the Warrior too, his sword blackened and charred, his mighty face ruined. Who would Maric lit a candle to, to pray for courage? To pray for strength and courage to earn his knighthood, to prove that the Seaworths were just as good and as worthy as the sons of any highborn lord or knight? Who would protect them in the coming battle? Who would -

“They burned wood this morning, not our gods. That’s what Father said,” Dale said, his voice low, almost a whisper, even in the privacy of their own living quarter.

Maric raised an eyebrow. “So Father is not convinced of this Lord of Light business either? Now  _that_ , is definitely not something we want anyone else to know. The Queen’s men would trip over themselves trying to let King Stannis know.”

“I doubt Stannis believes in the Lord of Light either,” Allard said. “But half his army does, and most of his men are scared of the red woman. Perhaps he thought … well, never mind what he thought.”

“Since when are you an expert on Stannis Baratheon? I thought you dislike the man?” Maric asked, astonished at his brother’s words.

“I do not dislike him,” Allard said defensively. “I dislike the notion that we owe him not just our loyal service, but our lives too. But he has been more than fair to us, I can’t deny that.”

“How will the rest of the Seven Kingdoms take this Lord of Light business, do you reckon?” Maric asked his brothers.

“Not well, if my own crew is any indication. My men are certain  _Lady Marya_  will run aground or encounter a terrible storm on our way. Punishment from the gods, they say, for turning our back on them,” Allard replied.

Dale nodded. “The men on  _Wraith_  were whispering the same thing.”

Maric was alarmed seeing his brothers’ gloomy, pessimistic prediction. “Surely Father could say something. King Stannis trusts him and values his counsel.”

Dale was the one who replied. “Yes, but for how long? Lady Melisandre has his ears now. And if Father speaks up too insistently, might not Stannis begin to doubt Father’s loyalty, and refuse to listen to his counsel at all?”

“I do not envy Father his predicament,” Allard said.

 _Oh Father_. How glad he had been, when Dale and Allard were made captains of their own ships. How pleased he still was, when Maric told him that his dream was not to captain a ship, but to be a knight, strong, gallant and as good as any Velaryon or Celtigar, as worthy as any of those highborns mocking and sneering at the Seaworths.

“I will make you proud, Father,” Maric had promised his father.

 “You are my son. I have always been proud of you, for being the kind of man that you are. Even if you never become a knight,” Davos Seaworth had told his son.


	4. Matthos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Davos and Black Betha had been in the second line of battle, between Dale’s Wraith and Allard on Lady Marya. Maric his thirdborn was oarmaster on Fury, at the center of the first line, while Matthos served as his father’s second. (A Clash of Kings)
> 
> Matthos would never captain his own ship, as he’d dreamed. (A Storm of Swords)
> 
> “It looks handsome enough, Your Grace, but I fear I cannot read the words.” Davos could decipher maps and charts as well as any, but letters and other writings were beyond his powers. “I’d forgotten.” A furrow of irritation showed between the king’s brows. “Pylos, read it to him.” (A Clash of Kings)

**Chapter 4/7: Matthos Seaworth**

_The Crone is very wise and old, and sees our fates as they unfold_

_She lifts her lamp of shining gold, to lead the little children_

In terms of faith, I’m following book!canon instead of show!canon, so Devan is the one who believes in Lord of Light, not Matthos. But I’m borrowing the part about Matthos trying to get Davos to learn to read and write from show!canon.

\----------------------

“Marya love, pray for me and our boys, for our safe return. And for King Stannis too, for the gods to bless him in his –“

Matthos’ quill moved quickly across the parchment.

“No, forget the last part,” Davos said suddenly, interrupting himself.

“The one about King Stannis?”

Davos nodded, looking rueful. “Stannis Baratheon must not be your mother’s favored man at the moment, with four of her sons about to go to war for him.”

“Her husband too,” Matthos said softly.

“Aye, but she is used to my faults and follies. Your mother’s not a fool, lad. She knew the man she married from the first day. _You’ll not fool me with your sweet words and your promises, Davos. I know you_ , that’s what your mother said when I asked her to marry me.”

Matthos’ quill was suspended over the parchment. He smiled and asked, “Should I put that in the letter as well, Father?”

Davos laughed. Ah it was good to hear his father laughing again. The death of Maester Cressen had hit Davos hard. Matthos waited for his father to continue with the letter.

“Think of me before you close your eyes at night, and when you open them in the morning, Marya. And know that I am doing the same, wherever I am. I dream of waking up next to you every day that we are apart.”

Matthos blushed. Davos saw, and he cleared his throat with embarrassment. “Well … I suppose that _is_ too much. No son would want to think of his father and mother –“

“No, it’s all right. Go on, Father,” Matthos insisted, despite his still reddening cheeks.

“Ah well, there’s no need, in truth. Your mother already knows how I feel,” Davos said, looking away, as if he was suddenly too shy to meet his son’s eyes.

“If you know how to read and write, you can write the words yourself, whatever you want to say,” Matthos finally said. “To mother, to Steff and Stanny, to anyone you wish to write to, Father. And it will help you immeasurably to carry out your duties for King Stannis.”

They have had this discussion before. Matthos was resurrecting the ghost of an old argument, and Davos deflected it with a smile and a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I have you to do the writing for me, don’t I? Aye, aye, I know, lad, you’ll be captain of your own ship soon, and I won’t have you shadowing me much longer. Still, you’re stuck with me for now, eh?”

“I can teach you, Father. It is not that hard,” Matthos persisted, despite his father’s best effort to change the subject.

“For you and your brothers, maybe. Not for an old man like me,” Davos said softly, almost inaudibly. The shame that was apparent in his voice and his eyes when he told Matthos about the irritated look King Stannis had given him as Stannis was reminded that Davos had never learned to read and write was back in full force.

“It’s not too late to learn, Father,” Matthos said, his heart breaking for his father.

“I know, lad. After we win this battle, I promise. You’ll teach me how to read and write then, and I will keep at it even if it breaks my back.” He paused, the grinned widely and said, “It will be a relief for you, eh? Never having to write another letter about your mother and me waking up in bed together.”

This time, Matthos did not blush. With a straight face, he said, “You and Mother have made seven sons together after all.”

Davos roared with laughter. “If Allard could see you now. He’ll not call you _The Shy Maiden_ again.”

Truth be told, it was not the mention of his mother and father in bed that had made Matthos blush earlier. (Allard’s assumption that his younger brother was a naïve innocent on that particular matter turned out to be completely erroneous.) It was the intimacy inherent in the words his father recited for Matthos to write down; the deep, abiding love and affection, yes, but also the storied history of a marriage punctuated with long separations that cannot help being, at the same time, thorny and complicated.

It was there in the words Matthos read out loud to his father too, in the words his mother had written in her letters to her husband. (Left at Cape Wrath to maintain their keep while her husband toiled for Stannis Baratheon in Dragonstone, Marya Seaworth had learned to read and write long ago. “ _I need to know enough numbers and letters so as not to be cheated by servants and tradesmen at least,_ ” she had said.) At times Matthos felt that he was intruding in the most private moments between a man and a woman, something even more private and more intimate than two people in bed together.

“What’s on your mind, lad?” Davos asked, gazing thoughtfully at his fourth son. “ _Where do you go, in your head, when you look like that?_ ” Maric had asked more than once with a touch of fear and anger in his voice, as if deep down, he suspected Matthos of plotting his escape from the rest of them.  

_I’m here. I’m not going anywhere._

“I was thinking about the time we were all back home together,” Matthos told his father. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly. He _had_ been thinking about home, in a way.

“Ah yes, when Devan was leaving for King’s Landing,” Davos said. King Stannis was still Lord Stannis at the time, serving in his brother’s Small Council, and he had taken on Devan as his new squire. Dale, Allard, Maric and Matthos all came home to Cape Wrath with Davos, with Allard muttering the whole way that Devan was too young, too timid and too gentle to be serving the likes of Lord Stannis, famed for his severe and unyielding ways.

But the boy who greeted them when they arrived was almost unrecognizable from the last time they saw him. A sudden growth spurt had shot up Devan’s height so that he now towered over Stanny, who had previously been so proud that he was almost as tall as Devan, three years older. And there was a look of newfound confidence and boldness in Devan’s eyes, which told Matthos the boy would not fare poorly in Lord Stannis’ service.   

“It’s like Dale has shrunk to his eleven-year-old self,” Allard marveled, noting the close resemblance in looks between Devan and Dale as a boy.

“And you still can’t beat me in a fight, even at that size,” Dale teased.   

 “I can beat Devan in a fight,” Stanny announced, the brashest, loudest of the three youngest Seaworth boys.

“You only win because Devan let you,” Steff piped up. “Stanny sulks when he loses in anything - a game, a fight, even when we draw straws to see who gets the extra slice of pie.”

“I do not!” exclaimed Stanny heatedly. “I don’t sulk. I _don’t_!” he said, obviously sulking.

“Sulking never did me any harm as a boy. I usually get the extra slice of pie. Just ask Dale, he’ll tell you,” Allard said, winking at Stanny.

The boys’ quarrel didn’t last long and they were already running around in the backyard chasing after a cat not an hour later, yelling and shrieking loudly. Devan came out from his room to see what the noise was all about, and Steff and Stanny waylaid him to play monsters and maidens.

“Devan still has his packing to finish,” Marya scolded her two youngest. “Leave him be.” She was kneading bread and warily watching the stew simmering on the pot, having banished the cook from the kitchen so she could prepare her sons’ favorite dishes herself. Dale and Maric stood next to her, cutting up vegetables to add to the beef stew.

“Oh let them play, Mother. They’ll not have much chance to play together after this,” Allard said, stuffing his mouth with another slice of peach pie.  

“You’re such an expert on children, it’s about time you wed and father your own,” Marya said. “Which one will it be, the woman in Braavos, or the one in King’s Landing?”

Allard choked on his pie. He drank a glassful of water before looking at Dale and Maric accusingly. “What have you been telling Mother? All lies, Mother. I’m innocent,” he declared theatrically, hand pounding his chest.

“Don’t forget the one in Oldtown,” Matthos said, to be met by Allard’s mock -withering gaze. “You too, Matthos? How could you? You’re my favorite brother.”

“If I am truly your favorite brother, you would not leave me cutting this mound of onions on my own,” Matthos replied. He had taken over the task from his father, whose eyes had reddened and teared after only a few onions.  

“The onion knight, crushed and defeated by onions,” Davos had japed, his eyes twinkling. Matthos and Marya had been the only ones to laugh. The sting of ‘onion knight’ being used as an insult for Davos Seaworth and his family was still too raw for Dale, Allard and Maric for them to laugh at the joke, even to feel at ease with the name being said out loud.

“Lord Stannis calls me his onion knight,” Davos confided to Matthos once, “so how can the name be all bad? If some wish to use it as an insult to taunt us, to sneer at our humble beginning, then so be it. They would use other names if not that. Why should we let them dictate how we feel, how we act?”

Those were wise words, but abiding by them turned out to not always be so easy, even for Davos himself. He tried, though. He really tried. Matthos knew how hard his father worked to try to ignore the insults, the sneers, the jeers, the mocking words. Knowing that, how could Matthos do anything except try to do the same, as best as he could?


End file.
